Beneath the shade of the world lies the fickle, indistinguishable,
fallen memories of our distant lands. Inside our sacred fables,
we spin the conclaves of hidden desire, stare at the sun
and find a wheel of infinite light, of beautiful sable
flight, and the transporting of stars becomes our needed
desire, to grasp the stars like a bright morning star
and swing the universe into a new shape, to weed
out the imperfections and forge a garden of absolute far
off dreamland bliss – when the air is stark, crisp,
and fledglings of warmth stream by, and the sweet
color of green forests sheath the earth. When the lips
of angels touch the clouds and tears of joy flow in the beat
of a quiet, haunting melody. Drifting from distant mountains
in notes thrushed with silk and the heavy fire of truthful sounds.